


Camping Trip

by 8inchCaliper



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Mild S&M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8inchCaliper/pseuds/8inchCaliper
Summary: Martin and John go on a little excursion for business and pleasure - and maybe a little pain.
Relationships: Paul Lazar | John Watkins & Martin Whitly
Kudos: 2





	Camping Trip

Camping Trip

The sun seemed reluctant to shine as it drowned the day in its tarnished golden hue. Dr. Martin Whitley looked out the window, dissociating. John Watkins drove because John always drove and Martin let him because Martin didn’t care about such trivial issues. Who drove, who ordered food, who tied up ankles or wrists… none of it made much difference to him. 

“You see that Sequoia?” 

John’s arm extended past Martin’s pointy nose and Martin followed the path of his index finger and nodded at the small-for-its-breed tree. 

“There’s a pit bull buried at the base. Deep down.”

Martin looked at John now, searching for signs of truth. “A dog?”

John nodded. “Yeah. He was mine. I used to bring him up here. He was the only thing I ever had in my possession that I didn’t torture or kill.” 

“With me being an exception.” 

John smirked. Yes, Dr. Whitley. You’re definitely an exception.” 

Martin continued to stare out the window. “You think I should have brought Malcolm.”

“Geez, Martin, we’ve been over this. You really think that would work?” 

“I don’t know. I’m of two minds...”

“If your boy vanished, you don’t think Jessica would rip out your heart with a cocktail fork? She’s already on ten most of the time anyway. That would push her over.”

“He’s just so innocent and trusting…”

“So is your daughter.”

Brown eyes sought out… whatever the hell color Martin’s were. “She’s different. I feel like the boy is my clone. I often wonder if I should stop him before he even starts.”

“Just stop.” John’s voice was low. “You’re not fooling anyone. I don’t think you could displace a hair on his head.” 

Martin shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”  
“Anyway, campgrounds are up ahead.” he nodded in the direction of the shabby cabin with unkempt grass and shrubbery. 

The last five minutes were silence save for the rumble of the engine of John’s truck, the crunch of gravel underneath tires, the open and close of doors. 

Together they opened the trunk and bent over it, peering down like a newlywed couple on their honeymoon. The lifeless body inside was wrapped in cellophane and old blankets. 

“She doesn’t travel well I’d say.” John joked but without mirth. Martin looked up at him, wild eyebrows knitted in worry.

“Should we do it now or wait for night?”

“Hole is already dug. Just a matter of dropping her inside it.”

Martin swallowed and made a face. “So unceremonious. Like trash.”

“Well, sorry Dr. Whitley. Some of us don’t have the luxury of bathing the old girl, trimming her nails and giving her a pedicure before painting pretty hearts and stars on her face with our spunk.”

“You’re disgusting.” He sighed. 

John shrugged. “Don’t act surprised.” 

The men worked on the task together. It wasn’t difficult. Martin didn’t like working with a partner or even having someone along. He wasn’t all that chatty except when being sarcastic or downgrading someone. That was something he and his wife had in common; Jessica pretended to like people, too. But the real fun was in belittling them, making them feel small. 

“They stood by the porch, leaning against brick, sharing a blunt, the scent of marijuana clinging to Martin’s hair, beard and clothes. He suddenly felt filthy. Passing off the hand-rolled, he tossed out, backhanded, “I’m going to go have a shower.” 

John watched him go in and finished off the doobie, tossing the remains into the damp undergrowth. 

Inside, Martin soaped himself and hummed against the water. His hair curled up with even the slightest bit of moisture. He felt empty inside and shut his eyes to try and capture some sense of fulfillment. The thing he was after was nothing like most people were into: family, money, career. None of that mattered. What he was after was equilibrium. 

Dominating people, manipulating them, brought with it an extreme sense of power. Martin felt superhuman when he wrapped his arms around an unwilling participant in his killing games. He loved knowing he could steal a life force right out from under another person. He could toy with them, divvy out the life in increments, have someone clinging to it and clinging to him, their body language begging him to stop - or to finish it off - like an orgasm. 

He didn't realize he was hard until he felt the pins and needles tingling his organ in rhythmic pulses. And then, as if by magic, John was there behind him, hot breath on his neck, hand wrapped around his erection. 

"No…" Martin murmured, half hearted. "...this isn't supposed to… John…"

The taller man was pressed against him, wet front to wet back, arm flexing as he pumped up and down. The other hand slid up Martin's hairy, slippery stomach, chest and nipple before gripping his throat. John preferred a dryer and softer experience but Martin could only climax if pain was involved. 

"I'm starting to suspect… the real reason you invite me 'camping'..." Martin managed to breathe out. 

"Yeah, you have the softest ass I've ever felt." John said through gritted teeth as he wedged himself between Martin's ass cheeks. "I've been thinking about it."

"My ass?"

"Yeah and the sweet tight place between."

John simultaneously gripped his throat and cock and smiled at the sound of Martin gasping. He could bring him to within inches of his life and then give him an earthshaking orgasm, leaving every inch of his flesh covered in goosebumps, every hair standing on end. 

"J - John…" Martin choked.

"Shhh…" John pumped and humped and squeezed ever harder as his own head began to swim. 

It was only a matter of time before Martin began to convulse, body going taut, his voice a soundless wet gasp. 

"Fuck… Martin! Goddamn it! Fuck!" John was slamming into the smaller man and then it was silence. His motions stilled as he emptied himself inside Martin. 

He used what strength he had left to hold Martin up as he had gotten dizzy cutting off the oxygen to his head. 

He half carried him to the bed and lay him down, collapsing next to him. 

"Don't ever do that again." Martin whispered when he got his breath back. He always said that. Every damn time. 

"Okay, Doc."

"And don't call me 'Doc', you sarcastic disrespectful asshole."

"Takes one to know one." John chuckled. 

"I'm a married man." Every. Damn. Time.

"I'm aware."

"I'm a father to two beautiful children." 

"One of whom you've contemplated killing."

"Still, I question the relevance..."

"Martin, Jesus Christ!"

"I'm not your lover. We're not lovers."

John exhaled and glared over at Martin. "I fucking know. You tell me every time." 

Martin nodded. "Just making sure you're aware." 

"I am aware, you sadistic prick."

John Watkins stood and stretched, his cock swaying, spent and heavy. He felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed. He turned his back to Martin and looked out into the darkening evening. He could feel the doctor's eyes on him. 

"Now you're all melancholy. We buried a woman together tonight. Something we've done a number of times and yet somehow, your disposition…" 

"Don't try to psychoanalyze me. You might find some shit out that you don't want to know."

“Like what? That your mother was a narcissist and your father left one night to get bread and never came back? Your step dad used to diddle you in the bath while your mother blamed you for it?” 

John turned to glare at Martin. “Keep going. You might touch on something.”

“Like the fact that your personality disorder keeps you from getting and keeping a real job so you’re stuck disposing of peoples’ sloppy seconds. Except when they’re your own?” 

“Why the fuck do I deal with you?” John was genuinely disgusted. 

“Because you’re in love with me - and you’re never going to find another person like me to come play your little reindeer games with.” 

A bubble formed in his chest and made its way up his throat like a sob but he’d die by his own hand before he’d do that. In front of Martin, no less. Instead, he rifled around in his duffle bag and found a doobie already rolled. The lighter was nearby and he lit it. Letting the smoke push the bubble down. Deep deep down. 

“What's wrong? Did I touch on something?” Martin’s sarcastic tone was almost too much.

“No. Not at all.” John inhaled deeply, letting the weed clear his head space - or fog it up. It was the only way. 

The silence between them stretched on and on. And then John heard movement behind him and felt a presence, very close. It could've been the hands of death, a dagger to the back, a gun to the nape of his neck. Martin was crafty that way. He’d’ve already prepared a kerchief doused in chloroform. It could be his final moments. Any moment spent with Martin could be his last. 

But no. The hand was on his shoulder, gentle. Then it was in his hair, caressing. John shut his eyes and leaned into the touch. It wasn’t an apology or an affirmation but it was the best thing he’d get, the closest thing to an ‘I love you.’ 

END


End file.
